


The Five Times John Watson Died and The One Time He Didn’t

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock meets the Doctor, Sherlock-centric, Time Skips, multiple main character deaths (temporary)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-11-12 23:12:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11172084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Sherlock and the Doctor have to save John Watson before his death becomes an immutable point in time.





	1. Chapter 1

“John…”

 

Sherlock fell to his knees beside the still form of his best friend in the entire world. He was too numb to cry, too shocked to actually react in any way beyond tentatively touching the huge wound in John’s side, as if to verify its existence. John stared skyward, struck down so fast that he hadn’t even had time to close his eyes. Glassy orbs, going from blue to clear with the lack of blood flow, were expressionless, unless one counted the slightly surprised look that still had not vacated the familiar face.

 

“No…”

 

Lestrade walked over but said nothing, did not engage the stricken detective. He, of all people, realized what John meant to Sherlock. It had been he who had saved Sherlock the first time, when the boy addict had overdosed and Lestrade had brought him to the hospital. It was there that he had learned of Sherlock’s incredible mental gifts and started him on the road to becoming the World’s Only Consulting Detective, a role in which he excelled.

 

It was John who had ultimately saved Sherlock, though. Lestrade had been waiting for the young detective to succumb to his addiction at some point because of his underlying issues. Meeting John had changed all that. While Sherlock had backslid upon occasion, he had always rallied for John. Now that John was gone…

 

“No NO _NO NO **NO**_!!!!” Sherlock screamed, scooping up John’s limp, bloody body and cradling it to his chest. Now the tears burst forth, pouring down his cheeks in a torrent of sorrow. He knelt there, rocking his dearest friend’s body, John’s head resting unresistingly on Sherlock’s shoulder, eyes still open and unreacting. Sherlock wept openly, unashamedly.

 

Everyone from Scotland Yard stopped and stared, taken aback by this uncharacteristic display of emotion from the Terror of Scotland Yard. No one spoke. Even Donovan said nothing, despite her antipathy toward the man. Lestrade waved them all off, telling them to start securing the area and making sure nothing was disturbed. It was a murder scene now.

 

He finally knelt down next to Sherlock and John, placing a comforting hand on the tall man’s shoulder. He shook it gently. Sherlock ignored him, so deeply entrenched in his shock and mourning that he would have ignored a volcanic vent if it had opened up next to him.

 

“Sherlock…” he began…

 

“No,” the detective returned. “No, it can’t end like this. It can’t…” A fresh torrent of tears slithered down his prominent cheekbones. He shook his head, curls bobbing. “I won’t let it. I swear to you, John, I won’t let it happen…”

 

The paramedics had arrived and peeled John’s lifeless form out of Sherlock’s arms while Lestrade held him back. As they covered his face with a sheet, Sherlock raised his head and arms and let out a howl from his very core.

 

**_“DOCTOR!”_ **

 

Everyone froze in place as Lestrade grabbed Sherlock and shook him, hard. “Sherlock, Sherlock, listen to me…it’s too late for a doctor. John’s dead…”

 

“ _NO!!”_ Sherlock screamed, tearing away from the DI’s grasp. “No! Not yet! I can…I can still save him!” And, with that, Sherlock hared away into the rapidly-growing crowd of onlookers, leaving a puzzled Lestrade—and John’s rapidly-cooling body—behind.

 

A stunned Donovan wandered over to Lestrade and said, in wonder, “I think ‘e’s finally lost it this time. Poor bastard.” She shook her head as she stared after him.

 

“Yeah,” Lestrade agreed, half-heartedly. “Yeah, this time, you might be right…”

 

>>>***<<<

 

Sherlock slammed open the door into the secure office.

 

“Where is it?” he panted, completely disheveled from his cross-town run.

 

Mycroft looked up, almost startled but not quite. “Where is what, brother mine?” he inquired, one eyebrow raising appraisingly, until he noticed the large red stain on Sherlock’s coat, the tear-streaked face, and the wild look in his eyes. “Oh, so, it’s happened, has it?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes grew larger and more dangerous. “You knew, didn’t you?” he whispered. “You _knew_ this would happen and you did nothing to stop it.”

 

Mycroft spread his hands. “There was nothing I could do, Sherlock. The timeline is fuzzy about this particular event. Even _he_ said so.”

 

The detective launched himself across the room and plowed into the massive des, behind which Mycroft was sitting, actually shoving it back an inch or two. “I want it, give it to me, or I will tear this office apart to find it,” he growled, leaning in aggressively, his eyes fixed on Mycroft’s.

 

Mycroft was silently in awe of Sherlock’s angry outburst, since he knew how emotional his brother could be when provoked. “Calm yourself, brother. I have nothing against using it, but it can’t be abused for one person’s benefit…”

 

“That ‘one person’ is the most important person in the world right now. Without him, I cannot go on, I _will_ not go on. _He_ was very clear about that. If you want to see London destroyed by an errant nuclear device, then, by all means, do keep the device and watch as I spiral down into death, because I _will_ , Mycroft. Without him, I will die, and so will London.” Sherlock pushed back from the desk, his eyes like molten steel.

 

Mycroft nodded solemnly. “Yes, Sherlock, I believe you. I also believe _him_ , which is why we kept the device secretly. _He_ has helped us many times before, and I think we may have to call upon _him_ again.”

 

Sherlock did not stand down. He continued to stare at his older brother, challenging him to back up his words with actions. With a deep sigh, Mycroft produced a set of keys, one of which he used to unlock the bottom right drawer of his desk. He pulled out…a mobile phone and held it up for Sherlock to see.

 

“That’s it?” Sherlock’s nose crinkled in surprise. “ _That’s_ the device _he_ gave you?”

 

“What were you expecting, brother dear, an Interocitor?” Mycroft sighed. Sometimes Sherlock could be so… _limited_ in his thinking. “This isn’t a science fiction movie, you know. _He’s_ very practical about these things. The less ‘high tech’ it looks, the less likely that anyone knows what it really _is_.”

 

Sherlock stuck out his hand impatiently. “Give it to me. Now.”

 

Mycroft pulled it back to his shoulder. “No. _You_ will not use it. _I_ will. We can’t have just anyone using it willy-nilly.”

 

Nostrils flaring, Sherlock flung himself across the desktop, nearly impaling himself on a pen desk set in the process. He grabbed at the device but only succeeded in snaring Mycroft’s wrist. The two brothers struggled, Sherlock being dragged across the desk, Mycroft being yanked around in his chair.

 

“GIVE IT TO ME!” Grab.

 

“SHERLOCK, LET GO!” Hand in the face.

 

“NO! GIVE…IT…TO…ME!” Attempted bite and hair-grab.

 

“YOU ARE SUCH A BRAT!” Sideways shove.

 

“AND YOU’RE A ROYAL COCK!” Another grab. “GIVE IT!” Attempted slap.

 

“NO!” Hair pull.

 

Mycroft finally was able to raise a foot to Sherlock’s shoulder and shove him back across the desk with one mighty kick. The wild-eyed detective’s chin cracked on the edge of the desk as he slid off. Mycroft then re-settled his clothing before peering over the front of the desk to check on his brother.

 

“You really need to control that temper of yours, baby brother,” he snarked. “I never said I _wouldn’t_ call _him_ , I just said that _you_ wouldn’t.”

 

Sitting sprawled on the floor, rubbing his chin, Sherlock mumbled, “Fine, then. Have it your own way. You always do.”

 

Mycroft sat back in his leather-upholstered chair, satisfied with his temporary victory. “Not always, Sherlock. If I could have kept you away from the drugs, _then_ I would have gotten my own way. But you were always so _willful_. Still are.”

 

“Well, at least I’m not psychotic,” Sherlock shot back, angrily. “That’s got to count for something.”

 

“Ye-e-es,” Mycroft nodded, his face suddenly dropping. “I know what you mean. It took two of _him_ working with us to keep Eurus from becoming the greatest threat mankind would ever know. Even worse than Moriarty.”

 

Sherlock dropped his eyes in remembrance. It hadn’t been easy, losing his only sister like that, but he knew that _he_ had done the right thing.

 

“Now,” Mycroft stated, “if you’re done trying to assault me for this device, I will gladly call _him_ for you. Perhaps _he_ will be able to help…”

 

“Then do it. Now,” Sherlock growled, the threat in his voice real and obvious.

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, looking down at him archly, the mobile still clutched in his hand.

 

“Please,” Sherlock grumbled.

 

The older man smiled and thumbed the mobile on before holding it up to his ear.

 

“Yes, hello, who is this? Ah, yes, your voice sounds different now. A new incarnation? Are you enjoying it? Splendid.”

 

Sherlock rose from the floor, his expression intense, eyes burning as they bore into Mycroft’s. “Ask him,” he hissed.

 

Mycroft held up a finger. _Wait_. “Of course,” he mouthed, then continued. “Doctor, we seem to have reached a turning point that you warned us about not so very long ago…” He nodded, hanging on every word. “Of course. He’s more than willing to assist you. It _is_ his friend who was killed and…oh,” he stopped, his face transforming from calm and controlled to horrified. “My God…” he whispered. “Yes, yes, we anticipate your arrival. Thank you, Doctor.”

 

“What did he say?” Sherlock probed. He received no response as Mycroft powered off the mobile and placed it back, under lock and key, into the desk drawer. “Mycroft…”

 

“He will be with us shortly,” his brother finally responded, staring off into nowhere. “I can’t tell you any more than that.”

 

Sherlock slammed his hand on the desk, jolting Mycroft out of his shock. “The _hell_ you can’t. Tell me what he said, _Myc_ …NOW!” as he hit the desk again.

 

Mycroft’s eyes finally met Sherlock’s. His pupils were pinpoint, the detective noted. A bit not good for Mycroft the Unflappable. “You must promise me that anything you hear in this room must not go any further, and you must _never_ tell John…”

 

“John is dead,” Sherlock stated, flatly, coldly. His voice shook ever-so-slightly.

 

“Not for long,” Mycroft whispered as a weird, pulsing, whirring sound began to fill the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never let it be said that the Doctor doesn't know how to make an entrance, and never believe that Sherlock would let such an appearance go unchallenged...

In the corner of Mycroft’s spare office, there suddenly stood…a box. A _police_ box. It was blue, had a rotating light on the top, looked as though it had seen a bit of wear and tear, appeared gradually out of nowhere, and was accompanied by a very unpleasant grinding and wheezing noise.

 

Mycroft watched the structure with great anticipation. Sherlock, not so much.

 

“That’s _it_?” he asked, his voice flat.

 

Mycroft waved his question away. “Yes, yes, of course, it is! _He’s_ here!”

 

Sherlock’s lips flatlined. “Unimpressed.”

 

“Yes, well, you _would_ be. You have _no idea_ what this man has done for the greater good of the Empire.”

 

“Oh, you mean, the Empire that no longer exists? Well, that wouldn’t be much, now, would it?” Sherlock snarked, his eyes rolling. He never missed an opportunity to needle his older brother.

 

Mycroft slid his eyes sideways but said nothing. They waited.

 

One of the double doors opened up and a man bounced out. He was tall and gangly, much like Sherlock himself, with a shock of brown hair that, in a most unruly fashion, fell across his eyes. He was wearing suspenders and a bow tie, accompanied by… a fez. He noticed the two men and waved cheerily.

 

Mycroft turned to Sherlock and opened his mouth for introductions, but Sherlock beat him to it. “You’re…the Doctor,” he stated. His face was a study in disappointment.

 

“Yes, yes, that’s me! I’m…the Doctor! Hello, Mycroft!” he burbled, fixing his bow tie nattily. He stepped forward and extended his hand. “And you must be the famous Sherlock! Oh, I’ve heard so much about you from your brother and some…others, but your brother’s description was so much more _flattering_ than theirs.” He grinned engagingly.

 

Sherlock looked down at the long-fingered hand, very much like his own, and stated, “You’re joking.” He turned to Mycroft and said, “ _This_ is the ‘Saver of Worlds’ you’ve gone on about? This… _prancing_ _buffoon_? **_God_**!” he complained bitterly as he took a step toward the office door before swinging around and pointing accusatorially. “You _lied_ to me, Mycroft! Everything you said…that he could save John when ‘the time comes’, that he has ‘saved the universe’— _all lies_!” He stared at the nonplussed younger man with his hand hanging in mid-air and his jaw unhinged in surprise. “If this is ‘the Doctor’, then _God help us all_!”

 

“Give him a chance, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, soothingly, forcing a smile that was meant to disguise how much he wanted to throttle his younger brother. “Yes, this is a…different incarnation than the last one I dealt with but, I can assure you, he is still very much the same Doctor.” He rose from his seat and came around his desk to shake the Doctor’s hand. “Welcome, Doctor. I can’t _tell_ you how happy I am that you took the time to come assist us in our moment of need!”

 

The Doctor grinned and shook Mycroft’s hand with enthusiasm. “A pleasure as always, Mycroft! Now, where do we begin?”

 

“By sending you on your way _back_ to the circus,” Sherlock growled, yet he took no more steps toward the door. Arms crossed, his face as dark as one of Moriarty’s suits, he glowered at the beanstalk of a man standing before him. 

 

“Ouch! You didn’t tell me he was such a grouch!” the Doctor noted, still all grins.

 

Mycroft sighed. “Well, you must forgive him for that, Doctor. He _did_ just loose his best friend…”

 

“Ah, yes! That time, is it? Well, we’ll have to amend that, won’t we? Wouldn’t do for things to be in the wrong places when the time arrives, would it?” the Doctor replied, rubbing his hands.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and counted to ten; unfortunately, he only reached five before he exploded. “This man is an _idiot_ , a _charlatan_ , and you are lapping up his words as if they were honey!” He walked over to Mycroft’s desk and banged his fist on it. “ _Damn it_ , my best friend is _dead_ and _you two_ are exchanging niceties like it’s the _Queen’s tea party_! **_Useless_ , _both of you_**!”

 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, **_SHUT UP_**!” Mycroft finally yelled, bringing Sherlock up short. “This is the _only_ man who can help us, and you’re insulting him! It would serve you right if he left right now and allowed John Watson to _remain dead_!”

 

The tall detective, uncharacteristically, shut up.

 

The Doctor intervened. “Oh, no, Mycroft, that wouldn’t do at all! We _need_ this John Watson on our side when the time comes! Besides, history tells us there _is_ no Sherlock Holmes without Dr. John Watson!”

 

“What?” Sherlock blurted out, his arms dropping in surprise.

 

The Doctor turned to face Sherlock. “What ‘what’?” he inquired.

 

“What do you mean, “there is no Sherlock Holmes without John Watson?” Sherlock asked, obviously perplexed and a bit angry. Sherlock _hated_ not knowing what was going on.

 

“Should I tell him, or will he lose the plot?” The Doctor asked Mycroft.

 

Mycroft shrugged. “Tell him if you wish. It will only make him more curious.”

 

The Doctor grinned impishly as he turned back to Sherlock. “Well, you see, I travel through time and space and, sometimes, even other dimensions. In some of those dimensions, _you_ don’t exist, but the chronicles of your cases _do_. You are quite the literary figure! You and Dr. Watson have a fan following numbering in the billions! In this dimension, however, _you_ and your chronicler are quite real, but the books don’t exist, only Dr. Watson’s blog. So, you see, Dr. Watson is an integral part of you and your legacy. Can’t allow that to disappear, now, can we? Might create repercussions throughout the continuum!” He virtually bounced with joy. “My, I’m just so excited to meet you! I’m such a fan!”

 

Sherlock stared at the Doctor as if _one_ of them was quite mad but he couldn’t tell which one. He blinked rapidly.

 

The Doctor’s grin faded slightly. “Oops, I think I broke him, Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. “No, not at all. He’s just processing. It _does_ take a bit of mental gymnastics to realize one’s place in the scheme of things. I reacted in rather the same way, as you might recall.”

 

“Ah, yes! I remember! You sort of went…” and the Doctor mimed his head exploding, complete with sound effects.

 

“Yes, well, as I said…” Mycroft responded, slightly miffed at the description.

 

Sherlock shivered back into life again. “So, let me get this straight; you travel through the universe and parallel dimensions, in which I may exist as a either a person or a literary character, but, in every incarnation, there is a John Watson, as well?”

 

The Doctor’s head bobbed in accord. “Yes! And if Dr. Watson doesn’t exist, neither does Sherlock Holmes. The two are bound together in _all_ incarnations. You save him, he saves you, you both continue. If one of you dies…” He stopped, as if he had been struck. “My God…”

 

“What? A straight answer, Doctor, _now_!” Sherlock demanded tartly.

 

The Doctor stared at Sherlock and pronounced. “We only have a limited window in which to save him, Sherlock. If we don’t, it becomes an immutable part of history. One singularity, from which cracks could form in the fabric of eternity. The damage could be _incalculable_ , not to mention the Event…”

 

“Yes, the Event,” Mycroft interrupted. “You told me it would require _both_ of them to resolve it satisfactorily. If John dies…”

 

“The Event will occur, and there’s no one else in any position to stop it.”  The Doctor took in a deep breath. “Yes, we must get on this immediately. Everyone, into the TARDiS!” He leapt into the open door of the police box.

 

Mycroft and Sherlock just stood there, staring at him as though he was mad.

 

“The what?” Sherlock asked, his nose rumpling.

 

The Doctor blinked. “The TaRDiS—Time and Relative Dimensions in Space.” He looked between them rapidly. “Well, come on, we haven’t got all day!” he said, motioning with his hand.

 

“It’s…a police box,” Mycroft stated. A nervous tic appeared in his left eye.

 

The Doctor, leaning partway out of the door, pointed at him. “Yes! Excellent deduction. Now, get in!”

 

“There won’t be enough room for all of us,” Mycroft continued, taking a step back toward the protection of his desk.

 

The Doctor grinned. “Aw, come on, Mykie, take a chance!”

 

Sherlock snorted laughter as Mycroft’s face darkened with anger. “I _think_ I’m beginning to _like_ him,” Sherlock chuckled as he squeezed past the Doctor and entered through the single door panel.

 

“That’s it, Sherlock! Knew you’d come around eventually! Now, come on, Mycroft!” the Doctor encouraged.

 

Mycroft backed up another step. “You never said _I_ would be involved in this.”

 

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun! A bit of a lark for you!”

 

“I _hate_ larking.” Another step backward.

 

“Don’t make me come out there after you, _Mykie_ ,” Sherlock yelled from inside. “You would _hate_ yourself if you missed this! It’s incredible!”

 

Mycroft looked at the eager Doctor and muttered, “Fuck” under his breath as he grabbed his umbrella and, warily, entered the TaRDiS.


End file.
